Running Out of Time
by EventHorizon6
Summary: Set during the final scene in The Great Game. John reflects on all of the things he wishes he could say to Sherlock in their supposed last moments. No slash.


**Running Out of Time**

John Watson was not the sort of person one would ever have suspected to be found in the heart of a murder mystery. No, he most certainly was not. Nor had he suspected he might one day have a bomb strapped to his chest, unable to move while a sociopathic consulting detective faced off against the one known to select ears as Moriarty.

And yet, there he stood. The pool water rippled, and the look of surprise on Sherlock's face did not make him feel any better about the situation.

"Evening," he greeted, his heart racing, yet somehow managing to keep his voice level as he repeated the words that were spoken to him from the head set in his ear. "This is a turn up. Isn't it, Sherlock?"

"John," Sherlock began, his arm still stretched out, holding the drive with the missile plans. "What the h –"

"Bet you never saw this coming." This time John's voice did quiver, but only in the slightest. How had he gotten himself into this predicament? Why had he ever dared to leave their flat? He knew what their mystery murderer was capable of. He had already blown up another, and John feared that he would be next. Following the killer's instructions, he opened up the enormous fur coat wrapped around him concealing the bomb.

Almost at once a laser beam from an unseen sniper pointed at his chest. With one tug of a finger John might explode. He had seen such things happen on the battle field, but he never suspected it might happen to him in such a safe familiar city as London.

"What…would you like me to make him say next?" he continued as Sherlock looked around the indoor pool of the high school, searching for the killer. "Nice touch this, the pool. I stopped him –" at this John hesitated as he closed his eyes and tilted his head, swallowing hard. He knew what he had to say next, but speaking the words made his reality all too true. "I can stop John Watson too," he finished. It seemed unfair to John. If this was to be his final moment he was only allowed to speak when communicating the killer's words to Sherlock.

Frustration, fear, and a deep sort of sadness erupted inside of him all at once. There were so many things he had yet to say to his flat mate, such as how Sherlock could be arrogant and oblivious when deducing people. How Sherlock was lazy, always making John go out and buy the milk which Sherlock himself could easily do when about on cases. How Sherlock always stuffed their refrigerator with human body parts (not to mention the head John had found) which John decided was quite embarrassing when he invited his girlfriend, Sarah, over for a meal. How Sherlock requested John attempt to deduce something only to make fun of him later by snippily remarking that he had "missed all of the important details". How Sherlock blatantly ridiculed John's blog no matter what the title was (John had felt the need to defend himself on 'A Study in Pink').

But no matter all of these qualities of Sherlock Holmes no one else in London had been able to handle, John had accepted them as part of Sherlock's character and had been able to look beyond such faults to seek the heart of a good man. They complimented each other, in a way no two other friends did, and now it seemed that John would not have time to tell his flat mate exactly how much he enjoyed being a part of Sherlock's ever messy life.

"Stop his heart," John concluded, silently pleading with some higher force that he may yet get out of this predicament alive.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, whirling around, searching the enormous pool room for any sign of their mystery murderer. A door at the far side squeaked open and an odd sort of high voice answered.

"I gave you my number. I thought you might call." John watched Sherlock turn, but he himself refused to move, the wavering red light ever present on the blinking bomb strapped to the coat he was wearing. A few more remarks were made, ending with Sherlock slowly removing his pistol from his pocket and pointing it at the man known as –

"Jim Moriarty. Hi."

John could hear Moriarty's footsteps behind him on the cold tile, and once Moriarty revealed himself to be Jim, the man Sherlock had inferred as gay in the hospital setting, all John could do was pass Sherlock a grim look. For a moment Sherlock's body language slipped. Although his facial expression remained curious (as it always did when a case was revealed) his body language was in no way comfortable. John kept his eyes down for a majority of the confrontation as Moriarty approached John from behind (Sherlock from the front), and although John was no expert on what went on in Sherlock's head, he did suspect that the detective was worried about John's life.

Not too long ago Sherlock Holmes would have declared that he had no friends, and John Watson would have easily corrected anyone with the statement that they were only colleagues, flat mates, nothing more. But it seemed their fates had changed, both were now worried about the other, John more than ever about Sherlock's life.

"Although I have loved this," Moriarty continued in his dangerously spirited way. "This little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?" he smiled, a smile that didn't reach his eyes on his thin pale face.

"People have died," Sherlock answered.

"That's what people DO!" Moriarty yelled, his voice echoing around the walls of the pool room.

"I will stop you," Sherlock breathed, his eyes and gun never leaving Jim.

"No you won't," Moriarty shrugged when Sherlock turned to face John who was trying to control his heartbeat.

"You alright?" Sherlock asked. John spared him a glance, his mouth glued shut as he stared at the ground, his brow furrowed from worry and anger directed toward Jim Moriarty. John felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight as Moriarty approached him from behind and leaned in close.

"You can talk, Johnny boy. Go ahead," he chuckled. John still refused to speak. Of course he was not alright, he was far from alright. He was staring death in the face. His life now rested within the hands of Sherlock Holmes. For many others it would not be comforting to know that their lives lay on the shoulders of a crazy detective. John, on the other hand felt quite the opposite. He knew Sherlock would not let him die, John could tell just by the man's question that he had no intention of letting John, himself, get hurt, and it comforted him slightly.

To ease Sherlock's own fear, John passed him a silent nod. He was still alive, and that he had to be thankful for. As if to bargain for John's life, Sherlock handed over the drive containing the missile plans. Moriarty stepped closer, his back now to John and in plain view of the doctor.

"Oh, the missile plans. Boring," Moriarty laughed, flicking his wrist and tossing it into the pool. Within seconds a new sort of courage came over John. Images swam through his brain. Images of Sherlock's first deduction of him, memories of him exclaiming 'brilliant' every time Sherlock examined something to the full, images of their giggling at the crime scene – the first time John had really felt useful to Sherlock by shooting the cabbie through the window, stopping Sherlock from swallowing a drug that might kill him. And after all of this, after all of their moments together as flat mates and friends, John realized that the world needed Sherlock Holmes, far more than it needed a retired army doctor.

Without stopping to think it through, John lunged, closing the space between him and Moriarty as he wrapped his arms around the skinny man's neck and lower shoulder, holding onto him with the strength that only a soldier might possess.

"Sherlock, run!" he ordered, gripping Moriarty tightly as the man laughed.

"Good!" Jim cackled. "Very good!" Sherlock kept his pistol raised and pointed at Jim Moriarty's heart, but there was no need. The red laser pointer was now flicking all up and down Moriarty's body kept in front of John's. His plan was working.

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," he grunted, determined to save Sherlock even at the cost of his own life.

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around, but then people get so sentimental about their pets." John tightened his grip around Moriarty's neck, nearly pulling the man off balance. "But oops!"

John stared at Sherlock who stared back when John recognized something on Sherlock's forehead that made him freeze.

The laser pointer was now pointing at Sherlock. John may have had the more explosive way to die, but a gunshot could still easily murder his friend.

"You've rather shown your hand there, good Watson," Jim said. "Gotcha."

It was Sherlock's turn to look down, for he knew exactly what was pointed at him. Giving a slight shake of his head he kept his eyes off of John's anxious expression as John released Moriarty and backed up, the laser pointer returning to his chest.

"Do you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?" Moriarty continued.

"Oh let me guess I get killed," Sherlock drawled, his pistol still pointed securely toward Moriarty's chest. He was tired of the games this man was playing. He had been foolish enough to believe earlier that he would catch the crook and that all of it was just to amuse him. Now that John's, the only man he had ever considered a friend, life was at stake, he wanted nothing better than to get out of their current situation alive with Watson safe at his side.

"Kill you? N-no, don't be obvious. I mean I'm going to kill you anyway someday. I don't want to rush it though, I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no. If you don't stop prying I will burn you." Here Moriarty's face became dangerous, much more hardened than it had been before. "I will burn the _heart_ out of you."

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one," Sherlock replied, his expression and stance ever reproachful and yet unreadable. John recalled all the people that had called Sherlock a freak when he had first been introduced to him. "Stay away from Sherlock Holmes" they had told him. He was a sociopath that enjoyed murder, enjoyed blood and searching for killers, and supposedly that was how they had become such close friends. John Watson was the only man who had been able to look past Sherlock's outward appearance, to see that there was a heart inside of him, as small as it was. Perhaps Sherlock did make cases out to be like games, but that's why John was there: to pull Sherlock down from his high and teach him that human lives were no game.

Reflecting on Moriarty's words, John also came to the conclusion that Sherlock's heart had begun to grow, just as John's had with their continuing friendship, and as much as Sherlock denied that he was not susceptible to normal human emotion, he was disproving himself at that very moment by trying to keep John safe and reach the conclusion of their case as well.

"But we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty smirked, drawing John back to the unfortunate present. "Well, I better be off," Moriarty shrugged. "It was so nice we could have a proper chat. Chao, Sherlock Holmes." John watched as Moriarty turned toward a door off to the side.

"Catch you later," Sherlock spoke the words slowly, emphasizing each one as his gun followed Moriarty as he stepped out the door.

"No you won't!" came the man's final sentence as the door clanged behind him and the sniper with the laser pointer also left the premises. John was safe. Within seconds Sherlock had set down his gun as he began to undo the coat and bomb from Watson's chest.

"Alright," he began, all business as John staggered, suddenly feeling lightheaded. "Are you alright?" Sherlock demanded in a more forceful tone as he stripped the jacket and bomb from John's shoulders and slid it across the floor away from them.

"I'm fine," John tried to answer, still trying to grasp that he was alive, but with Sherlock's frantic movements shaking him he barely had a chance to catch his breath. "Sh-Sherlock!" John called as Sherlock turned back face him. Both were gasping for breath as Sherlock then ran to secure the door, scanning the room for any other sign of danger while John's legs gave out and he slumped against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment to savor the fact that both of their hearts were still beating. "You okay?" John asked watching Sherlock pace, perspiration dotting his brow as he scratched the back of his neck.

"Me? Yeah, fine, fine," he answered hastily, proving that he was not alright, making John realize that Sherlock was just as terrified as he was about him dying. "That thing…you offered to do…" he slurred his words, his movements jittery as he swallowed referring to John grabbing Moriarty. "That was good."

John stared out across the expanse of the pool, unsure of how to respond. It was rare that Sherlock praised him, or even thanked him, and he suspected it was as close as he would ever get to gratitude from his friend.

"I'm glad no one saw that," he muttered, feeling far lighter than he had moments ago.

"Hmm?" Sherlock questioned.

"You," John began, savoring their moment together. He wanted to say what he had wanted to say before when his time was running out, but now it seemed as if he couldn't say it. _Odd_, he thought. _Odd how that works. We're always prepared to say things truly meaningful when we're in our last moments and fear we won't get to say them, yet when we get a second chance we don't have the courage to speak them._ "Ripping my clothes off," he whispered instead. "In a darkened swimming pool. People might talk."

For now he was content to feel only relief.

**A/N: ****This is my first Sherlock fan fiction. The dialogue and circumstance is taken directly from an episode in the TV series because I wanted to start writing fan fiction about Sherlock and John, but I was afraid I would ruin their characters, so I've decided to start small relying on the original episodes as a backdrop so I can try to really capture their characters.**

**I chose this scene in the episode: The Great Game, because I really really loved this part.****Not only was I on the edge of my seat but you could really feel the intensity shared between John and Sherlock. Most of the time, yes, the two compliment each other, but they are also knocking heads, and Sherlock always struts around like a big-headed twit with no emotion for other people, but whenever John is in trouble you can just tell that Sherlock really cares about him and that John also cares about Sherlock, as much as he complains about him.**

**This is not meant to be a slash!**

**I do not ship these two together, I just really really love their friendship, and how they connect in a way no two other friends do. I wanted to focus on that as I wrote this, so I added a bunch of thoughts that might have been going through John's head to try and make it more emotional and sincere. Also, throughout the episodes John is always having to correct people that he's not gay and he and Sherlock aren't a couple ****XD**

**There is more to this episode, and I apologize if this spoils it for anyone, but please go watch this TV show immediately if you haven't. I am absolutely in love with it. There will be more to come soon, but I probably will pull more from the episodes just to practice writing their characters a little more before I attempt to start my own fan fiction that deviates from the TV series.**

**Reviews are welcome, but please be gentle as this is my first Sherlock fanfic and I sincerely apologize if anything is amiss. Also, I am American, and therefore am not accustomed to the British jargon and so I apologize if I use any phrases or sayings incorrectly. **


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